Checking Out

by Nick Spalding

I’m being molested by a hairy orange creature with a personality disorder. Now I know what it feels like to be a woman locked in a room with Donald Trump.

I’m not normally one for advocating violence against animals of any kind, but I’m willing to put my morals aside in this instance, given that my shirt has now been pulled out of my waistband and I can feel donkey penis against my skin. ‘Get it off!’ I scream with renewed vigour. ‘It’s so wet . . . and I can feel it pulsing!’

He joins his friends at the hay bales for a feed. Charming. Find ’em, fuck ’em and feed, it seems.

I’ve stopped worrying so much about what’s going to happen or what has already happened and I’m thinking more and more about what is. Right now. In front of me. And what’s in front of me is life.